Design by Armeen Rayhan Arisha
Sometimes
When i miss home
I miss a version of people that no longer exist outside of me.
Jan 2010
We went to the zoo today.
My father carried my brother on his shoulders,
such a strong man,
holding him like weight had yet to discover his body,
me in one arm,
my mom’s hand in the other.
My older brother walked ahead on his own now.
“Independent” they called it.
We had lunch at a place my mom said she loved as a child.
Loved. Past tense.
Like the feeling didn’t follow her here.
She told me her father used to bring her and my aunt there every Saturday.
She said “Saturdays still come every week
but they don’t arrive the same anymore.”
I didn’t understand what she meant.
Dear diary,
It was a good day.
June 2012
It was a Saturday today.
My mom loves Saturdays.
She says she wants to “keep the traditions alive.”
I don’t know what she means.
I want to go out with my friends.
We can always have family dinner,
but I don’t always get this.
Dear diary,
I can’t wait to be independent.
Feb 2013
Today I noticed that I had grown two inches.
Almost up to my mom’s shoulders.
Soon, I’ll be taller than her.
I can’t wait.
We visited Nana.
Mom says he’s sick.
But I thought he was always sick.
He always looked pale to me
Like his body had already started leaving, before the rest of him agreed to.
His skin doesn’t look like ours.
But my mom’s skin doesn’t look like mine either,
Dear diary,
I hope Nana gets better soon.
July 2016
Laying on his bed,
Nana asked me what I wanted to be.
I couldn’t answer.
Not because I don’t want to be anything,
but because I want to be everything.
The endless possibilities.
The capability.
I’m excited.
Though I’m yet to be certain of what I’ll become,
I know I want a house of my own,
in a foreign country,
with all the freedom people talk about.
Dear diary,
I want to sprint to the future.
Sept 2018
Nana’s room still smells like him.
His bed is empty.
His absence, evident in the scent he left behind.
Mom doesn’t smile the same anymore.
She doesn’t mention Saturdays.
I think now, I understand.
March 2023
Took my dad to the doctor today.
He’s been complaining about his shoulders, his joints,
the kind of pain that doesn’t sound serious until it is.
The weight caught up to him.
My brother was on video call.
That’s when we heard it.
Lupus.
A soft pain in the middle of a silence louder than any cry.
It pressed into the room, heavy, unmoving.
Settling into something permanent
I thought I saw a tear.
Or maybe it was the screen.
Maybe the distance.
But my brother froze.
Some things don’t travel well
not voices, not silence, not this.
Jan 2026
My phone rang, it was mom.
Saturday.
“It’s too loud,” she said.
Somehow, I knew exactly what she meant.
The silence.
The empty house.
The empty bed.
The clean smell of nothing.
The distance between us grew
before I even noticed I had.
Now we count time differences
instead of planning dinners.
Somewhere in the sprint,
I forgot to stop,
to look around,
to breathe in the air of their presence
while it was still around me.
But every once in a while,
I still see it.
The house, in the way I arrange my own.
Tradition, in the way I spend my Saturdays.
Her scent, in my laundry.
His smile, in mine.
Home didn’t disappear.
It just… changed form.
And somehow,
it ended up here.
Dear diary,
Now I carry it everywhere